Life is a journey. This is the travel blog of my encounters. You can read back about my cultural experiences in Europe(mostly CZ), my theological blunderings through seminary, and my most recent posts as associate pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Manhattan, Kansas.

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Saturday, January 21, 2017

One breath at a time

It was with great grief and hope that yesterday we announced the birth and death of our child, Robert Earl Collins. The last 24 hours has been a rough patch as we ride the waves of grief, and our dear beloved friends and family have showered us with hope as well as lamentation for our tragic experience. I realized as I was the one who physically went through the labor to birth our already lost child, we(Robbie, our family, and close friends) were all suffering through the storm of child loss. As my body goes through the physical healing from this very physical process, we all will be going through healing as well. Robbie and I have been intentionally leaning on one another to pray together, cry together, lament together and seek words of hope.

Since I process through my writings I will be posting some of the words which give voice to our grief process which can be helpful for you to know how we are doing, as well as, hopefully, provide language for others who have been or will go through times like this in their own unique circumstances.

For instance, I was telling him this morning that when I go out in public, I want to wear a button that says, "Warning, I just lost my first child. Treat me with compassion, but please do not ask me how I am doing. Neither of us can handle the pain right now."

Robbie: I want mine to say, "Don't tell me it will be okay, don't tell me a story of hope, just give me something normal."

We've been describing the grief process as a sort of runaway train, which you can try to get off or try to stop or pretend that your not on, but no matter what you do, you're already on it. Incomprehension fuels this runaway train of grief, and the more we avoid the pain, the faster and more reckless it goes. When we talk and cry and let out our emotions, the train does indeed slowdown and become more controlled, not because things get better or easier, but because the unreal becomes more real and the incomprehensible becomes comprehensible. You are never on the train alone, but you can choose who you sit with on that train. We are choosing to sit with each other and we are very thankful for the friends who are sitting with us through this terrifying and hopeful experience.

Our faith is our foundation through this experience, as we testify to our belief that the same God who was knitting Bob together in my womb is now playing at his side in the new life which is promised for us all.

Thank you for reading, thank you for your prayers, and Christ's peace to you who are also grieving.